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Old 10-19-2003, 11:13 PM   #108
Imladris
Tears of the Phoenix
 
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Tolkien

Maethor

“Oh, drat, where are you, Dulrain,” Maethor murmured quietly to himself as he leaned against the wall, his shoulder nestled in a comfortable hollow in the rough stone. The bones of dead vines were enwrapped in the dark crevices between the mortar, the dried roots were littered at the base, ants wound their way around the roots, and wandered into a trampled green verge forest of weeds nearby. Puckering his brow with some puzzlement, he leaned over the crushed weeds and discovered a faint trace of a foot print. “Dulrain,” he whispered as he recognized the print. Crouching easily he crept along the edge of the wall, keeping his eye upon the elusive footprint which soon led to the gates, and was promptly lost within the crazy mosaic of other footprints. Maethor glared at the convoluted tracks and muttered, “Blast.” Squinting into the golden sunlight he said softly, “Did he go out the gate or --” peering into a muddy puddle lingering after a summer rain, “or did he stay in the town?” A pony’s hoof landed with a splash in the muddy puddle, sending a small cascade upon the crouched form of Maethor. Wiping the grimy water from his jaw, he added, “What are actually the chances of my choosing the right path?” He glanced again within the town where the rats scampered within the shadows and where the hobbits laughed, or outside where the grass laughed gently under the soft caress of the breeze as it skipped over the dells? Shaking himself, he stood up and walked briskly through the gate, waved jovially to the warden and cried, “Good morrow!”, quite forgetting that the morning had long since passed and turned into noon.

Maethor breathed the clean air and decided to make his way towards the woods, hoping to come across Dulrain’s path again. Despite the easiness and relaxation of the day, Maethor became a trifle uneasy and he saw no hint of the path. Still, Dulrain was a range, and could easily hide himself if he so wished.

Entering the gallery of trees, Maethor brushed his hand against the green moss that clung tenaciously to the rough bark and sang,

“Green were the trees under the entrancing sunlight’s beam,
Merrily laughed the jolly waters with gilded sliver gleam,
Here my lover waited under the woodlands bower,
Her hair was soft and golden like the Mallorn flower
Her eyes were as blue as the glorious firmament above,
Sweetly our touching lips spoke of our young love.
Yet now, she sleeps, shackled by the cruel cold hand of Death --
Alas, I did not hear her murmured dying breath! --
Pale, her slender form an ivory stature hidden in the ground.
‘Twas I who left her to slay the orcs that in this land abound.
And as she waited for me, she languished in her wretched misery,
Whilst I frolicked with the crimson flow by the blood-stained sea.
Did I hear her silent cry, heed the beckon of the tears the pled for me
As she prayed for the Valar’s blessing upon her bended knee?
Nay! Others were my comrades -- she in my thoughts she was ever present,
The sword drank the blood of spawn, yet her memory made all things pleasant.
Slowly she faded, as she pined for me, and then she died for me,
Accompanied to the brink of the grave by her misery.


The grievous melody fell from Maethor’s lips and he wondered why such a sad tale had crept to his tongue to drape the morning with their sabled robes. He found himself near the Chetwood, and said aloud, “Bother! Dulrain never would have come this far. It’s near old Tallas’ place --” Maethor smiled fondly for he had heard of the old man -- “and I don’t think that he is quite her sort.” Turning, he heard a mad crash through the brush, and saw a slight form come tearing from a grove of trees. He saw that her hands were tied, and that she clutched them to her chest, as continued to run, weaving her way through the trunks. He heard the shouting of men echo under the gallery of the trees. The maiden was near him, her eyes were filled with terror as they met his own. She swerved away and stumbled upon a root, but Maethor caught her in his arms and righted her to her feet.

She was an elf and Maethor started as he recognized her as Vanwe from the Forsaken Inn. Her golden hair was awry, her face scratched by the cruel twigs that had clutched after her departing form. The angry shouts of men, the vile oaths that stained the air, reached their ears, and grasping her gently yet firmly by her wrists, Maethor swung around and hastened to the west, trying to make a circle around the men and loose them from the fairly obvious trail that Vanwe had left in her wake. Maethor made several clues, pointing them to a fake path, but couldn’t quite do it properly because of his haste.

After some minutes, Maethor led the elf into a quiet circle of trees, enshrouded by shadow, and said, “We can rest here awhile -- a very short while,” he added with a gentle smile. Guiding her to a nearby stone, he motioned for her to sit and he himself crouched upon his heels and gazed into her eyes. They fluttered downwards and Maethor remembered that her hands were still tied. Withdrawing a silver knife from his right leather boot, he held her hands within one of his and proceeded to cut the ropes that bound them. The knife had been but newly sharpened, and the old ropes fell with a but a few strokes. He saw that her wrists were chaffed sorely. Taking his waterskin, he poured some upon them and said, “We must make hast, my lady. Alas, we do not have time to make a proper poultice, but we can do that at the Prancing Pony. Come,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the woods. “I am Maethor,” he added, realizing he had failed to mention his name.

The woods were silent, not even the trill of a bird broke the ominous mood. Stopping, he listened and whispered, “Do you hear anything?” Vanwe shook her head and Maethor hurried on and, still in a whisper, asked, “From whom were you running? Your mother?”

Vanwe shook her head and answered softly, “No. Scoundrels named Barrold Ferney and Avanill, treated my with a little more kindness.”

“Ferney?” asked Maethor with some annoyance. “That is a shame that he missed the meeting with our friends.”

“Your friends?” asked Vanwe curiously.

“Amandur, Lespheria, Rauthain,” Maethor began, and stopped. He had distinctively heard the crack of a twig; he felt Vanwe stiffen. Swearing quietly to himself, he drew his knives and began to roundly rebuke himself for not paying more attention. “Naiore wants you still, doesn’t she?” he asked Vanwe, as he wondered why the thugs would want anything to do with a fair young elf maiden.

A young man sauntered easily from the brush and Maethor raised his knife and said, “Stop and leave now.”

Raising his hands, the young man said, “No need to be touchy now. I don’t mean any harm.”

“Avanill,” Vanwe whispered.

Maethor peered quietly at Avanill and then to Vanwe. It seemed strange that the maiden in his song resembled the elf so closely: a chill premonition shadowed him: what if the same fate befell Vanwe? Resolutely he turned back to Avanill: he seemed tricky enough, but Vanwe had said that he had treated her a little more kindly. Maybe he didn’t like seeing her captured and tied -- what decent man would? Yet Avanill wasn’t technically a decent man. Maethor searched for a weapon upon him, and found none. “Where’s your friend -- accomplice?”

Avanill snorted in disgust and said, “Why should I care? I don’t like kidnapping people -- it ain’t my trade.” He paused, and added, “I…uh…have a grudge against Ferney, so I’ll just walk away and let you go.”

Maethor narrowed his eyes swiftly and glanced at Avanill. He was not telling the truth but that was clear. “Maethor!” Vanwe, cried as a hurtling mass crashed through the underbrush and bore him to the ground -- his dagger flew from his hand and landed with a soft thump to he ground.

An oily hand grasped eager for his throat, dirt was sprinkled in his eyes as Maethor gasped for breath: the man reeked of garlic and onions which also in part was the cause of Maethor’s lack of air. The ranger heaved his elbow into the vagrant’s stomach villain’s stomach and the rogue fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Planting his knee on the man’s chest, Maethor lunged for his dagger in his left boot, but Avanill, perceiving his intent, kicked him, sending Maethor sprawling upon his back. In an instant, he was upon his feet, dodging punches from Ferney, barely grimacing as some found their mark. Blood flowed freely from his mouth, and he saw dimly that Avanill was pouring a liquid onto a piece of cloth. Ferney, charging like a mad bull, pushed Maethor like a slender reed to the ground, and swiped at his face with Maethor’s knife which he had found on the ground. The blade curved against his forehead, but flung his arms up, knocked the knife from Ferney’s hand and heaved him to the ground. As Ferney climbed to his feet, Maethor curled his leg behind Barrold’s knee, jerked Barrold’s feet out from under him, and punched him down. Leaping astride him, he grabbed the lapels of his beggarly coat in his clenched fist and said, “Tell me where Nairore is, you bastard!”

Barrold only gurgled in reply.

“Where is she!” he asked again, punching him in the mouth.

“Why don’t you find her?” he gasped.

Maethor was about to reply, when a cloth was shoved up his nose. His senses fled, and overpowering darkness engulfed him as he fell senseless to the ground.
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Last edited by piosenniel; 03-12-2004 at 03:46 PM.
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